


Superpoised

by MaeJacrezz007



Series: Superpoised [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaeJacrezz007/pseuds/MaeJacrezz007
Summary: This is a story of a bar. About a con man and a suit. About heroes and villains. About a team of good bad guys, a team of great good guys, and a British man from outer space. It's about life, and love, and lust. Humor, hatred, tears, and terrible puns. Lots of puns. But most of all, it's about a bar on the corner of Lost and Broken, three doors down from Hell and in the heart of New York. Inside there's drinks and stories. Food and fights. Science and magic. And the man behind the bar? Well, that's a story for another day. This day, this story, is about a bar.(This has no fandoms here, just setting stuff up for later.)





	Superpoised

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really anything as a piece by itself, but without it the rest of the collection won't make any sense in my opinion. All the characters in this piece are owned by me and I would really appreciate it if you asked before you borrowed them please?

On the corner of Lost and Broken, three doors down from Hell, there's a bar. It's a little place with no real name --at least not one people remember. Inside it's clean, but not overly so, with an atmosphere that sighs in lonesomeness. The tables don't match, the floor is scuffed and scratched, and none of the booths have real leather. No one has ever really danced on the floor, no true loves spotted across the bar, no crimes committed in the night. Well, none have ever been reported, at least.

Despite the establishment's lackluster appearances, the bar top is certainly a character. Black oak, charred then sealed lovingly with layers of polish. It's three feet wide, four and a half feet tall, and runs the length the length of the far wall. It's carefully wiped down every so often, peanut shells and ghosts of touches buffed away with practiced efficiency. Names have been carved into the underside of the wood, tiny imprints from people long gone only known by the scratched letters. The corner on the end was rounded smooth after Sarah tripped and busted her head in a spectacular display of intoxication one New Year's Eve. Jonathan Cray seared blisters into the varnish in front of the Shock Top tap, a bar trick gone wrong at "See this!"

There's stains and scars and stories in that old bar top, one's only the man behind it can tell. Buy him a shot and he'll tell you about Sarah and Kayla and Ann. A round for the bar and he'll tell you about Jonathan Cray of Bobby Fisher. He'll smile an infectious smile, laugh and conduct conversation better than a conductor at an orchestra. A lean body built for dancing slides back and forth on busy nights, the man floating between his groups of customers, carefully chosen words planted in a charming Irish accent. His eyes are inhumanly green, the corners crinkled in an honest smile and the cheeks under them rosy with laughter and the warmth of alcohol. Rules clearly don't apply to him, as any regular knows he'll out drink anyone if challenged.

He's pleasant, and charming, and a shadow of a man. When he rolls his sleeves up, scars frost pale skin in a spider web of strength. Smooth looking hands hide hard callouses, a slight tilt of to an otherwise button-like nose whispering of previous breaks. The way he places his his weight when an especially violent argument starts speaks louder than any peaceful words he says, dancer melting into fighter with ease. Determination is set deep into his features, a brightly burning fire hidden under the carefully crafted mask of a fool. He is grace and danger and sin and joy all in one, all at once. He makes no assumptions, and only once someone acts will he be forced to pick his persona.

For a shot, he'll tell you about Sarah and Kayla and Ann. A round to he about Jonathan Cray or Bobby Fisher. But only for your company, deep into the morning when most people are asleep, will he tell you his name is Schrodinger.


End file.
